I make my way to the object of

my dearest, selfish desire

The sky is cracked in a vivid contrast.

One third is clear, billowing with the

bright orange of dusk

The rest is deep black; the vanguard of night

and the coming storm

I wince longingly at the final embers of day

but that is not my path, and I

continue resolutely toward the dark

The waters I seek cannot be provided by the

rain, but they can be found, they must be found.

It is a sickness, you see. It poses no cure

and cannot be answered. And if that is

to be the case, I have but the one option.

The Lethe River must be found.

Like a voice calling between time and

memory, I know that I...

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